


Bakerfield Hall

by songlin



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Dark Past, Gore, Gothic, Gothic Romance, M/M, POV First Person, PTSD John, Pining, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victorian Science Fiction, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson, upon his return from Afghanistan, takes a position as a private physician in the country. He is quickly caught up in the old house, its mysteries, and its fascinating, mercurial master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chance or Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my contribution to the [Sherlock Sunday Summer Serial!](http://sherlocksundaysummerserial.tumblr.com/) Despite my lingering scraps of sanity, I signed up to participate. You can look forward to a new chapter of this every Sunday. (Or almost-Sunday. Nearly-Sunday. SUNDAY.) Nearly everyone else was doing children's stories. Naturally, I'm doing Jane Eyre, because I am a buzzkill and because my roommate heard about the project and NEEDED me to know how very, very many lines could be lifted straight from Edward Rochester's mouth and pasted into Sherlock Holmes's.
> 
> My plan is to post the chapters one at a time on the Sundays, and once I'm finished, go back and do some big edits. If you don't want to hang around and read the raw stuff, I totally understand. You can subscribe and check back, or just wait for me to start shouting about having finished birthing the monster on my [Tumblr.](http://songlinwrites.tumblr.com/) Since I'm cranking these chapters out so quickly (for me), they're all un-betaed and practically non-proofread. **Consider this carte blanche to point out whatever I fuck up.** Really. Please. Do it. I mean, point out the nice things too, if they're there, I guess.
> 
> Now that that's said and done: I give you Bakerfield Hall. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bakerfield Hall was my last and only option. In any case, it suited the man I had become. Monsters and madmen belong in such places.

There is a strange compulsion that visits a man in his old age. It is a restlessness, a heating of the blood, a thirst not dissimilar to the one that comes upon him in youth. A young man may look forwards, into the years upon years in which he may slake that thirst. An old man's years, though, are behind him. To quiet the restlessness in his bones, he must look back.

It is that restlessness that compels me to at last recount the story of my years at Bakerfield Hall and the extraordinary, near-supernatural events that transpired there.

I began those years in a deep sleep, ruined by violence and adrift in the world, firmly of the belief that I would continue in that state until I went to my grave. Chance—or fate—brought me to the one man in God's creation who could have delivered me. I tell you, no man was ever closer his mate as I have been to him. Though I sometimes knew weariness of his company and he of mine, he taught me what it was to live entirely for and with what I love best on Earth. To have had such intimacy with him, the best and wisest man I have ever known, I hold myself supremely blest.

We pull back the curtain in October, 1842. I had spent the years prior in Kabul as a surgeon, attached to the 44th Foot. The grim events that saw me back from Afghanistan to London in the previous autumn have been well-discussed in the press. I do not wish to reiterate them here, though eventually they may come to have immediate relevance to events and conversations I intend to relate. I suppose that, at that point, I shall bring myself to revisit those times, though I think them better forgotten.

For the time being, it should suffice to say that a Jezail bullet to my left shoulder had destroyed my future as a doctor, and the consequent infection had nearly destroyed me altogether. Upon my return to London in October, I was granted nine months' pension. It was money enough to live off of, but only just. I was without friends, family, or means. London was quite as expensive a place to live in then as it is now, and as soon as I showed sufficient recovery, I held nothing back. The passing weeks saw my health improve and my debts grow in equal quantities. By the New Year, I was near destitute.

I was saved from the almshouse by a stroke of luck. One Michael Stamford, an old school friend, wrote me, and mentioned passingly that he knew of a gentleman in search of a private physician. I wrote back with haste, requesting further details. The next letter I received was from a Mrs. Hudson of Bakerfield Hall. Enclosed were a request for my history and references and a detailed description of the position and its requirements. I was to have as my patient only one man, a Mr. Holmes, the master of the house, whose ailments were described only vaguely. I would be given the option to consider complaints from the rest of the household, but Mr. Holmes was to be my principle concern, and there was a physician in the village who was available to receive anyone I did not see.

It was a somewhat odd description, and I knew that many gentlemen of my station would consider employment of such a nature to be beneath them. But a man as desperate as I could not afford pride. I replied immediately with the requested documents. Within a fortnight, I was packing my few possessions and boarding a carriage bound northwest for Derbyshire.

Thus came I to be in a foreign place, with nothing to my name but a small trunk, a medical bag, and the clothes on my back. I have heard men complain that it is an unsettling sensation to be so entirely unattached; to me, though, it has always been a welcome one. Fear can thrill the blood and invigorate the senses as nothing else can. This sort of mild trepidation was a poor substitute for the chaos of war, but that was behind me. I had to accept what little excitement I could.

Reader, you may picture me, a man of forty, sat by the hearth and warming my hands before the fire. My hair was not yet full grey then, but a dirty yellow, as if the desert sands had dyed me permanently. Though I have never been a truly handsome man, I was once at least passing comely. Afghanistan, though, marked me so dramatically, it was some months before my reflection ceased to be a stranger to me. By the time I left London, I had gained back most of my weight and lost the hungry look I'd had about me. I walked with a cane, which I called an affectation, but which was equally for to lean on during passing spells of lightheadedness.

I was wrapped tightly in my coat, but it proved scant protection against the frigid February air. I made a note to acquire a better one posthaste. Momentarily, I wondered if there was even a competent tailor in town, but what sort of town has no tailor? Even here in the country, men had to dress. I should endeavor to ask Mr. Holmes, when the chance arose.

_If_ the chance arose. I had not been met by anyone at the coach. I went to summon a waiter and enquired as to the location of a Bakerfield Hall, but he passed me over. It was brutally frigid out of doors, so I entered the nearby inn and took my seat by the fire. Perhaps someone would find me here?

I waited at the hearth for near to an hour and attempted fruitlessly to chase the chill from my bones. As it neared sunset, I despaired of the idea that an envoy of the house would know me by sight, and hailed a waiter.

"Is there a place nearby called Bakerfield?" I asked him.

"Bakerfield? I don't know, sir. Let me inquire at the bar."

He vanished, but reappeared straightaway.

"Are you Dr. Watson?"

"The very same," I replied.

"Someone at the bar for you, sir."

I set down my hat, stuffed my gloves into my pocket, and hurried over to the bar. A rough-looking man straightened at my approach.

"Dr. Watson?" said he.

"I am."

He pointed at my things by the fire. "That all?"

"Indeed."

Without another word, he strode over to the hearth, hoisted my trunk up, and carried it outdoors to a waiting carriage, leaving my medical bag to me. I followed as quickly as I could.

When I was shut in the carriage and he in his seat in front, I knocked on the window and asked, "How far to Bakerfield Hall?"

"Hour and a half yet," came the response.

I sighed, pulled my coat tightly around myself, and fortified myself for the journey.

As we traveled through the village of Bakewell and out onto the country road, I thought of my patient. Mrs. Hudson's letter had given me just the vaguest sketch of his condition. It occurred to me only then that I did not even have information so basic as his age. Briefly, I wondered if I were mad, to accept employment so far in the country and under such mystery. But I soon recalled the circumstances that saw me out of London: my empty mailbox, my ruined arm, and the expressions of mixed horror and sympathy on the faces of every senior physician to whom I disclosed my history. No, this position was my last and only option.

In any case, it suited the man I had become. Monsters and madmen belong in such places.

The countryside out the window was grey and barren, spring being still some weeks off. I tried to imagine the fields green, bright, and lush, as they must have been in summer, but found it a difficult endeavor. As we left the town further and further behind us, the roads grew rougher, and the driver was obliged to walk the horses. The air ahead was murky and nigh-impenetrable in the fading light. The hour and a half seemed to stretch into two and onward. Just as the heaviness of my eyelids began to overtake me, I chanced to look out the carriage window. At that very moment, the carriage rounded a turn, and Bakerfield Hall came into sight.

The tallest towers seemed to loom out of the mist from where it was set atop a small hill. The rest emerged in increments: the crenellated battlements, the austere stone walls, the tall, narrow windows, and the arched gateway we drove under on the approach. On both sides were dormant garden plots, where still stone fountains were being gradually overtaken by vegetation. At the end of the path was a set of massive wooden doors. As I climbed down from the carriage, I noticed the line of stones some yards from the entrance that continued around the walls as far as the eye could see. After a moment, I recognized the remains of a moat. Bakerfield Hall was the descendant of a grand medieval castle, an instrument of warfare, now tamed.

The driver of the coach hopped nimbly down, fetched my trunk over, and knocked on the door. It was opened by an elderly woman in a black gown, apron, and widow's cap.

"Mrs. Hudson, I presume?" I said, and found my teeth chattering.

"Indeed," said she. "Come in, Doctor, come in!" She ushered me in, and the man followed. "Take Dr. Watson's things to his room, Jack, will you?" Mrs. Hudson said to him. To me, she said, "Jack drives so slowly, you must have left town before supper! We've cleared everything away, but I'm certain I can send for something from the kitchens."

Though I was famished, I was, more pressingly, exhausted, and I told Mrs. Hudson so.

"Of course, sir," she said. "Just follow Jack up the stairs, he'll show you right to your rooms. I'll show you round and introduce you to Mr. Holmes in the morning."

I can scarce remember making my way to my room or undressing. Despite my exhaustion, I passed the night restlessly, beset by nightmares. To the best of my knowledge, I had resigned myself to a life of loneliness in this partial exile.


	2. The House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted Sunday at 11:40PM. Getting better...
> 
> As mentioned last time round, this is quite unedited. Please, leave concrit! I have a thick skin and am a big slut for criticism!

I passed a fitful night, as I had passed most since my return. It was full day when I at last awoke. The curtains had not been drawn shut the night before, and the sun beamed brightly in. I rose and went to the window, eager for a glimpse of the grounds in sunlight. To my disappointment, though, I found that my room mainly faced an interior courtyard. There was another window on the opposite wall that likely overlooked the grounds, but it was too small to properly gaze out of.

In the light of day, I could get a better look at the room that would be my home. It was striking, if somewhat austere. The outer wall was cold stone, and the three interior walls were of beautiful, smooth, dark wood. The floorboards may once have been of a similar hue, but centuries of inhabitants and sunlight had worn the gloss from their faces and bleached the color from their bones. The drapes that had not been drawn the night before were a heavy brocade, once a rich, deep red that had since faded to a dusky rose color. The rug at the end of the bed was a similar shade. Besides the bed, glaucous-blue chair, two end tables, and a plain wardrobe were the only furnishings. The fireplace was small, but provided adequate warmth for the February chill.

My journey the day before had been long and I had not eaten since my meager luncheon on the coach. My nerves having calmed somewhat, I realized I was in need of a good breakfast and a good walk. My trunk was at the foot of my bed where Jack had left it the previous night. I dressed and left unpacking for a later time.

Upon exiting my room, I endeavored to hunt down Mrs. Hudson and see what could be done for my late breakfast. There was a staircase immediately adjacent my room. It was not until I reached the bottom that I realized I had left my cane behind. With not a little exasperation, I turned back to fetch it. It would not do to suffer a spell on my first day and collapse in front of my new employer. Not for the first time, I wondered in irritation how long I would be forced to suffer these curses. It seemed that no man ever left war altogether, and I was no exception. Even here, as far from war as anyone could be, I was beset by the memories of it.

Cane in hand, I set off again. The second time I reached the bottom of the staircase, I noticed a door to my left with a heavy lock on the handle. I thought this rather curious, but not so much as to be an immediate concern.

The kitchen lay across the courtyard. There would surely be some staff there. I crossed the yard and followed the sloping passage into the kitchens, which were of the old Tudor style, all stone, limewashed daub, and bare timbers. They were mostly empty at the moment, supper preparations having not yet begun, but there was a single maid at the long wooden table cutting vegetables.

"Excuse me," said I.

The girl started. "Oh!" she laughed, her hand flying to her mouth. "You startled me!"

I smiled, a bit tightly. I found myself short on patience, for what reason I could not fathom. "Apologies, miss."

She smoothed her apron over her plain black dress. "Oh, it was me. Lost in thought, I was. Say," she said, looking me over more closely, "you're the doctor, aren't you?"

"The very same," I said. "Arrived late last night. Which reminds me—I realize it's gone quite late, but is there anything about that I could eat? Only, I've slept through breakfast."

"Oh! Of course," she said, and scurried off into the pantry. She returned in time with a plate of bread, cheese, pickles, and cold chicken. "If you'd like tea, it'll be a minute," she said.

"This should do."

"Will you be taking your meal upstairs in the parlor?"

I considered. It would be good to have company, and this did not seem to be an overly formal household. I declined, and took a seat across from the maid.

Her name, it transpired, was Molly. She had come on some four years prior, and her father was a barber in town.

"My brother Will's a proper surgeon, though," she said. "Would've loved to have been a doctor, but that'd be another world, wouldn't it?"

I smiled the same tight smile. "Indeed."

Molly swept a pile of chopped carrots into a bowl and set about skillfully peeling a pile of potatoes sitting next to her. "If it's not too forward, Dr. Watson, might I ask what brings you from London all the way out to Derbyshire?"

The brutally honest answer was "lack of options." Instead of that, I said, "It seemed fitting."

Molly smiled over her potatoes. "What a curious man you are, Dr. Watson."

I frowned. "Sorry?"

"Oh! Only, it's not every man would uproot his life and take up in a place like this because a job seemed merely 'fitting.'"

I pondered that as I swallowed the last of my meal. The truth of it was, what life had I to uproot?

Just then, Mrs. Hudson entered through the inside door. Molly dropped her knife and potato and pulled herself upright. It struck me as very much like a soldier at attention, and I had the oddest urge to do likewise.

"Oh! Good afternoon, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said. "I had come down to see Mrs. Turner about supper, but it seems as good a moment as any to show you round the house, if you're amenable."

I was at that. With brief thanks to Molly for her company and my late breakfast, I rose.

"Mr. Holmes is in the library," Mrs. Hudson said, "but I should like to show you more of the house first, if that's acceptable."

I assented. She led me out of the kitchen and across a second courtyard, lecturing as we walked.

"The oldest parts of the house date back to the 12th century," she said, "and even the newest additions were only built early in the Stuart period." We passed under a stone archway and paused in front of a set of tall wooden doors. "The chapel was build when Henry the Sixth was but a lad. To think—I say my prayers in a room older than the works of Shakespeare!"

She opened the doors and we stepped inside.

The chapel at Bakerfield Hall was, and still is, a breathtaking sight. Light streamed down over the altar from a magnificent stained glass window that stretched nearly to the ceiling. Two smaller sisters to each side did likewise. The walls were painted with patterns of leaves and intricate crosses. Inset in a wall in the nave were magnificent, intricate carvings of medieval saints and martyrs. Behind me, I could hear that Mrs. Hudson was speaking, but I scarcely heard a word, stunned as I was.

I took a few steps into the chapel, and my hand brushed something. I looked down.

Just before the crossing, there was a single effigy. Surrounded by the dark grey stone of the chapel, the white marble seemed to shine. The woman was not a stiff, fully-dressed figure frozen in prayer typical of medieval memorials. No, in the midst of this medieval church, she looked almost anachronistically real. She was dressed in a nightgown, hands crossed over her chest, and eyes closed as if in sleep. Her hair was braided at the top of her head like a crown, though the back and sides fell loose, curling like clouds atop the pillow. A long palm branch was laid overtop the sheets. The marble creased and draped so skillfully that it could have been real cloth and hair and skin. If I touched her hand, I would have been surprised to find it cold.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

I nodded.

Mrs. Hudson stepped closer and touched one careful hand to the statue's pillow. "Her name was Charlotte," she said, her voice as soft as the woman's hair looked. "Charlotte de Brézé before she was married."

"She lived here?"

"Oh yes. She was the late master's second wife. Practically raised both boys, what with how young Mr. Mycroft Holmes was when his mother died."

My eyebrows raised. _Both_ boys? There was a second Mr. Holmes?

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Terrible thing that happened to her," she said quietly. "Terrible." Then, without warning, she straightened, blinked, and composed herself. "Now, then. The rest, we can see on the way to the library."

Down the way from the chapel was the parlor, a smaller dining hall for breakfasts and luncheons that was just off the banqueting hall and below the great chamber. These were mostly empty, and the oldest-seeming rooms I had been in yet, all tall windows and severe stone walls. It seemed as if I could smell the rushes laid over the floor and hear the echoes of a hundred Michaelmas feasts. Just next to a room Mrs. Hudson called the Long Gallery was the library. She knocked at the door.

"Come in," called a voice from inside.

Mrs. Hudson pushed the door open. "Mr. Holmes," she said, "Dr. Watson is here to meet you."

The walls were lined with shelves on both sides. In the center of the room were a few comfortable chairs. In one sat a slightly portly man with a high hairline and wearing a dressing gown. The expression he gave me must be termed a smile, as I know no other name for it. But it conveyed no warmth or affection, merely the recognition of my presence and a societal expectation.

"You will forgive me for not rising," he said.

"Of course," said I.

Mrs. Hudson fluttered a hand. "If you don't mind, I must be seeing Mrs. Turner about the supper." Mr. Holmes inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Well, then, I'll just leave you gentlemen to get acquainted."

The door shut behind her with a terminal _click_.

Mr. Holmes gestured to the chair across from him. "Do take a seat, Doctor."

I did so.

"I imagine that by now, you've grown quite curious about what need I have for a private doctor," Mr. Holmes said.

"I cannot say I haven't wondered," I replied.

He smiled another humorless smile. "Never fear. My needs are hardly obscure. I have always had a poor heart. As I've advanced in years, I have also been beset by that rich man's disease of the joints."

I nodded. Gout has indeed always been one of the most common complaints from wealthy men of a certain age. Treatable, if not curable. Nevertheless, it's nothing a local physician couldn't handle.

"You're thinking to yourself that gout and a bad heart are rarely enough of a reason for a man to keep a doctor on personal retainer," Mr. Holmes said.

I inclined my head.

"I must admit," he said, "I sought a doctor for personal reasons as well as professional ones. This is a large house. My younger brother is away often, and even when he is not, he is…" Here, Mr. Holmes grimaced. "He is…unsociable."

"So I am to be your companion."

"Of a sort."

I nodded. I had many thoughts on the sort of person who would literally pay a man a generous annual salary to be his friend. But I tucked these aside for now. As I had thought earlier during my conversation with Molly the maid: what other options had I?

"So, Dr. Watson," Mr. Holmes said, "are you familiar with the writings of Thomas Carlyle?"

We carried on a conversation for some hours, until at last Mrs. Hudson came to inform us supper was ready. I went to bed with a strange feeling of disappointment in my heart, and suffered terrible dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few exciting visual references for you, if you enjoy that sort of thing.
> 
> The visual reference for Bakerfield Hall is Haddon Hall. You can [take a virtual tour](http://www.haddonhall.co.uk/history-and-virtual-tour/virtual-tour) or [just look at a lot of lovely pictures of it.](https://www.flickr.com/groups/haddonhall/pool/) I've taken some liberties with the layout, and most of the interior decorations are mine entirely.
> 
> Charlotte Holmes's effigy is modeled off that of [Elizabeth Boott Duveneck.](http://www.mfa.org/collections/object/tomb-effigy-of-elizabeth-boott-duveneck-37897) Haddon Hall does have one in the same place, but the one there is [this very poignant one](http://marksimmsphotography.com/tag/haddon-hall/) of a young Lord Haddon who died in 1894 at just nine years old.


	3. Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain, it seemed, I could suffer. Failure, terror, starvation, and disease; all these were as nothing to me when compared to nothingness. Even here, a few months' quietude had me screaming out in the night in desperation for _something._

Over the following weeks, I settled into my place at Bakerfield Hall. Mr. Holmes remained in moderate health. He joked that perhaps gout was the best thing for him, given that his heart was aggravated chiefly by exercise. We spent a few hours every day conversing about this and that, and the rest of my time was my own.

With such a light workload, I found myself burdened with sufficient free time to accept appointments from the rest of the household. This primarily meant the treatment of colds, intestinal ailments, and headaches, and the dispensation of minor first aid. I grew tremendously familiar with Billy, the young groundskeeper, who came in like clockwork with minor injuries acquired throughout the estate.

"One would think," I said one chilly Wednesday afternoon, as I cleaned a scrape on his arm, "that experience might make you the wiser by now."

Billy grinned. "One might."

Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. "I've no earthly idea how you have survived thus far with your persistent inclination towards self-destruction."

"Too lucky to die, I guess. Ow!"

I pressed down perhaps a fraction harder than called for. Billy's reaction distracted him from my own. That sentiment was not unfamiliar to me. The chief difference between him and I was that I had learned the truth: what a man calls "luck" is, in the end, merely a stay of execution.

"Well," Billy amended, "luck, and the other Mr. Holmes."

I had yet to meet my employer's younger brother, though I had heard him referred to often. As I understood, he was away on business. What business that was remained mysterious.

"An outdoorsman, is he?" I asked, wrapping his arm in a length of bandage.

"Of a sort. Bit of an amateur physician himself."

I took this in and added it to my mental dossier on the mysterious junior master of the house. By that time, I had been at Bakerfield over a fortnight, and Mr. Holmes had been gone for at least a month preceding that. The Holmeses were primarily landowners, not businessmen, and had little taste for high society. Mr. Mycroft Holmes saw to most of the business of the estate, with the assistance of his land steward, Mr. Lestrade. While he did have substantial correspondence with various public officials and members of the peerage, he himself seemed to have little activity outside his own small kingdom. Perhaps his brother was off serving some purpose of Mycroft Holmes's?

During my daily time with Mr. Holmes the next day, I dared to raise the subject of his brother, of whom we had rarely spoken before. "Have you any notion of when the younger Mr. Holmes will be returning?" I queried him. "As best I know, he has been away for nearly two months." I intended to move from this question into the natural sequel: "What business is he in that he is kept away so often and for so long?"

Mr. Holmes's mouth twisted into the slightest ghost of a scowl. "I do not," he replied. "My brother last wrote to inform me six weeks ago to inform me he would be home in at least ten days' time."

I tried not to show my surprise. "Do you not worry for him?" I worried constantly for my own sister, although she was five years my senior and had never been my closest companion.

Mr. Holmes shrugged. "My brother does as he will. He has always come back."

He then changed the topic towards the upcoming trial of the accused murderer Daniel M'Naghten, about which Mr. Holmes seemed to know a surprising deal. I recognize an obvious change of tack when one arises, and bowed to my employer's wishes despite my growing curiosity.

Mr. Holmes took most of his meals in the library or in his rooms, which left me to dine alone most nights. Occasionally, when Mr. Lestrade's business at Bakerfield kept him late, he stayed and took supper with me. I found Lestrade a good-humored, sensible man, with a calm temperament. He had been working for the Holmes family since Mycroft had inherited the lands from his father over twenty years prior.

"Took over from my father," said Lestrade over supper. "Oh, no, it wasn't as if Mr. Holmes kicked him out into the cold. It was high time my father moved on, and I was just back from school. The timing was perfect. You might say Mr. Holmes and I learned how to manage Derbyshire together."

Lestrade laughed. His laugh was rather contagious, and despite my lingering malaise, I found myself joining in.

"So you have known the family since you were a boy?" I asked.

"Or thereabouts. Mycroft and I were nearly in the nursery together, but I was off at school by the time his brother was born."

The enigmatic junior Holmes, again! Even if Mycroft was reluctant to speak of him, surely Lestrade would be more forthcoming. "Are they so far apart?" I asked.

"Seven years," said Lestrade. "In truth, they're half-brothers. But Mycroft's stepmother was always 'Mother' to him."

The woman in the chapel. I nodded. "Yes, I heard they were close."

"Thick as thieves." Lestrade shook his head. The jollity in his eyes had softened, and his expression gone somber. "It tore him to pieces when she passed. Both of them, though likely it was hardest on Mycroft's brother. He was still a child then."

He absently smoothed back his hair. For a moment, he looked lost, as if he were a boy himself. The expression made me so dizzy that I was glad to be seated. A vision flashed before my eyes of another man, equally good-humored but less sensible. In my memory, his face was open and slack in disbelief, smeared with dirt and blood. In the moments before he looked down at the bayonet protruding from his stomach, he had worn the very same look that Lestrade did now.

"Doctor?"

I blinked and cleared my throat. "Yes?"

Lestrade peered at me curiously. "Are you quite well? You looked as if you'd had a turn."

I forced myself to laugh. "Quite well. Sorry to have frightened you."

He gave me a small smile. "Not at all, Doctor. I know how it feels to forget you're out of harm's way."

From there, I hastily took the conversation back to safer grounds, although my curiosity still ached like a wound.

That night, I was tormented most severely with nightmares.

I found myself in total darkness, the sort you have likely never encountered. Even the darkest basement cannot possibly compare to the black depths of caves where light has never reached. Even those creatures there that have eyes are blind, and all of them are wet, crawling things, the lowest scavengers of the earth. I lay there in that darkness, surrounded by those monstrosities, unable to move and barely to breathe. My head pulsed with pain, though that pain was as nothing to my shoulder. It was as if rivers of agony streamed outwards from its center, over my chest, down my arm, and around to my back. Though I was shaking with cold, I knew that my skin was damp with sweat and I blazed with fever. My clothing was soaked through with blood and sweat and filth. Throughout all this was the darkness, all-encompassing and overwhelming, pressing down on my limbs with brutal force.

There was silence, too. The silence was almost as total as the darkness, if not as eternal. The air had been split by screams once. It would be again, if the rawness of my throat subsided. For the time, I could only lay there alone in the dark and the quiet, listening to the rasp of my breathing and the pounding of my heart, waiting for the moment that even those sounds faded to nothing.

But they never did. My heart pumped. My lungs drew breath. I remained in that nothingness, weak, hurting, paralyzed, and death never came.

I did not scream until I woke, tearing off the bedsheets, leaping to my feet, and bracing myself to fight. Almost immediately, a spell bowled over me, and I crumpled to the ground under its force. I lay there a moment on the floor of my bedroom. My heartbeat thumped in my ears again. With my eyes shut, it was almost as if I had not woken at all. Perhaps I had not. Perhaps I never would. Perhaps—

A wash of determination overtook me, and I wrenched my eyes open. I was suddenly overcome with a fierce conviction that I must move. I needed to walk somewhere, anywhere, to breathe the air and see the hills and read my position in the stars until I knew precisely where and when I was.

I dressed quickly and fetched my cane. When I passed the clock in the main entrance to fetch my coat, I found it was not yet four. I was awake as if it were full day. I left the gates, crossed the small bridge over the dry moat, and set out into the night.

At that late hour, the darkness over the moor had not yet been tempered by the rising sun. There was little moonlight, and much fog and ice. I had to watch my step with caution.

Looking out over the scrubby grasses and still, frozen pools, I knew in my head that I was as far as I could ever get from the high-peaked mountains and yellow-green deserts of Afghanistan. Even so, I could not find the comparison entirely in Derbyshire's favor. In these mad, lonely moments, I could admit to myself at last that it had not been the blood and terror that haunted me. Even the men I failed and saw die under my hands did not torment me half so much as those seemingly infinite weeks alone in the dark, waiting to die.

Pain, it seemed, I could suffer. Failure, terror, starvation, and disease; all these were as nothing to me when compared to nothingness. Even here, a few weeks' quietude had me screaming out in the night in desperation for _something_.

I let my head fall back and looked up at the stars. They were mostly obscured by the clouds, but I could make out the constellation Corona Borealis, the crown given to Princess Ariadne, who guided Theseus from the labyrinth. I never could make out the crown, only a vague "U" or "C" shape.

I have never been a particularly godly man. But at that moment, I felt as if only the Almighty himself were the only man in the world with the knowledge and ability to comprehend my predicament and bring it to a conclusion.

"Give me a sign," I whispered. "End this."

I do not know how long I stood there in the starlight with my eyes turned heavenwards. After a time, I stopped hearing even my breathing and heartbeat. Finally, peace had come.

With scarcely an instant's warning, the still night was shattered. I heard the clatter of horse's hooves and turned only just in time to throw myself aside and save myself from death by trampling. Despite my efforts, the horse reared, the rider shouted, and they both went down, having slipped on one of the patches of ice I had so carefully avoided.

I picked myself up and hurried toward where they lay. "Are you injured?" I called.

The horse seemed only stunned, but the rider was prostrate, half-trapped beneath his steed. He did not respond to my inquiry, being too caught up in a lengthy oath that would have shocked a few of my brothers in arms.

"You must tell me if you are hurt. I am a doctor, and we are not far from Bakerfield Hall. I know the master of that house, and you would not be unwelcome."

The man succeeded at last in uprighting his horse just as I came upon him and knelt by his side. Just then, a cloud passed, and the moon illuminated the scene, and the face of my stranger.

If he were a handsome man, I might have been intimidated into shyness or awe. As it was, he was not ugly, although he was certainly striking in his own particular way. I estimated him at not yet middle-aged, perhaps thirty-five. He was dressed in a heavy wool riding cloak that belied the thinness implied by his slender hands. His face, too, was slender, with a classic Greek nose, stern features, dark brow, pronounced cheekbones, full lips, a strong jawline, and bright, clear eyes. He looked cross just then, with his eyebrows gathered and his face stretched in a grimace as he bent to take his ankle.

"May I see?" I asked, indicating the ankle.

The stranger scowled at me. Had he been a kind, friendly man who waved off my offer of assistance with humor, I might have let him be. As it was, years of talking down energetic youths insisting it was "just a scratch, Doc, nothin' to worry about," had instilled in me a certain instinct when it came to surly patients.

I leaned forward, took his boot, and slid it from his foot. He hissed in pain as his ankle straightened.

"Sorry," said I.

"You aren't," said he, glowering.

I shrugged. "Not particularly, no."

I set his boot down next to him, put his foot in my lap, and palpitated the muscles of the ankle. He grimaced and wrinkled his nose.

"Some manner of doctor," he grumbled, "treating a man against his will."

"Write in to the board, then."

"I might—ah!"

I had pressed the troublesome spot. "I _am_ sorry," I said again, "but it does seem to be but a sprain, at least."

The man had recovered quickly from the momentary pain. He was regarding me with curiosity, those bright eyes sparkling with it.

"You said you are familiar with the master of Bakerfield Hall," he said.

"I am."

"Mr. Holmes has brought on a personal physician, then?"

"He has."

"You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

The color blanched from my face. "How the devil—"

He took his boot in hand, grasped the stirrup on his horse's saddle, and pulled himself to a standing position. "If you would kindly, Doctor?" he asked, gesturing to his horse.

I helped him up onto his steed. He did not complain, although the movement must have disturbed his sprain.

"Much obliged," he said, once seated. "If you could fetch me my riding crop? I believe I dropped it just there."

I did this as well. When I had accomplished the task, the stranger grinned down at me, and said, "Well, then, Doctor, I shall bid you farewell for the time, and thank you."

With a touch of one heel, the horse was off, vanishing into the mists.

I shook my head, gathered myself, and set off back towards the house.

The return filled me with dread. Every step I took was a step closer to conversations about the situation in Hong Kong, prescribing countless chest rubs, the monotonous prattle of Mrs. Hudson, and the puerile gossip of Molly Hooper and the other staff. I yearned for another moment of excitement. My blood was still high from that single, singular instant when the bright-eyed stranger looked me over and saw straight through me. I feared, however illogically, that I may have just felt the last true thrill I ever would.

I walked as slowly as I could. I took the longest route. I contemplated "getting lost," but eventually decided that with the sun rising, I should return before I was counted missing, and entered through the main way.

As I put up my coat, I noticed a heavy wool riding cloak already hung there. A splotch of mud indicated where the wearer had fallen to the ground. I turned and found Mycroft's valet, Anthony, coming in from the lower courtyard.

"Whose coat is this?" I asked him.

"Oh," he said, "Mr. Mycroft's brother has returned from abroad."

I blinked. "His brother," I repeated, rather stupidly.

"Yes, Dr. Watson. Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your criticism is still welcome! Begged for, even.
> 
> For your perusal, I can now offer you this [whole Pinterest board of visual aids.](https://www.pinterest.com/morganatarg/bakerfield-hall/) I've been using it to gather clothes, furniture, scenery, and other useful stuff. It's turned into quite a nice collection of early Victorian menswear, decor, and English countryside. Very nice for a certain mood!


	4. Mr. Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How did you notice, then?"
> 
> And then, Sherlock Holmes did the most extraordinary thing. His eyes flicked down and up once, looking me over, and then he took me apart.

Sherlock Holmes!

I bit back a smile. A sense of something like relief washed over me, the cause for which I was not entirely sure.

"He could use a doctor, to tell the truth," Mrs. Hudson said. "He took quite a spill and came down on his ankle."

"I shall fetch my bag," I said. "Where should I look for him?"

"In the library."

I dashed to my room, acquired supplies, and made my way to the library with all due haste. I entered to find Mr. Holmes seated in a tall leather armchair which I had not yet seen anyone else occupy. Even in his absence, it seemed to be "his" chair. His injured ankle was propped up on a footrest. He held a violin in his lap, which he plucked at idly. The case lay open on the floor next to him, bow still inside.

When he heard me enter, he turned his head and grinned slyly. "If it isn't my would-be murderer," he said.

"I did apologize." I held up my bag. "I've come to nurse your wounds."

He gestured at his ankle. "By all means."

I knelt to my task. Keeping my eyes trained on my hands, I ventured to ask the question that had been burning in me. "How the devil did you know about Afghanistan? Even your brother doesn't know."

"Oh, I assure you, he almost certainly does," Sherlock said darkly. "Nothing happens in this house that my brother doesn't know about. He would have you believe he is a meek invalid living in quiet retirement. Nothing could be further from the truth."

I raised my eyebrows. Sherlock took this as opportunity to continue.

"My brother is the spider at the center of a web stretching to the farthest reaches of the British empire. He is counsellor to men at the highest levels. He is capable of connecting seemingly disparate statistics, spinning them into numerous potentialities, and weaving from them every probable outcome. If he had ever committed himself, he could have been a great man. Instead, he has chosen simply to be great."

Here, he puffed up his cheeks and poked out his belly, mimicking a man of much larger size. Against my better judgment, I found myself stifling a laugh.

"Did he mention me when he wrote to you, then?" I asked, returning to my previous line of inquiry.

"Not at all."

"Then how on earth could you know—"

"I didn't know; I noticed."

I did not allow this stranger's interruption to take me aback, and it gave me only momentary pause. "How did you _notice,_ then?"

And then, Sherlock Holmes did the most extraordinary thing. His eyes flicked down and up once, looking me over, and then he took me apart.

"I knew about Afghanistan just as I know you were held captive there for a considerable period after being wounded in the shoulder, and that your cane is indeed functional and not merely an affectation. I know that you have an estranged sister that you will not go to for aid. Perhaps it is because you dislike her drinking, but I suspect it is because her husband will not brook it, because he is a petty, mean man who blames his wife for their childlessness."

When Mr. Holmes had finished his speech, I realized I had gone completely still, and that my mouth was ajar. Self-consciously, I shut it.

"All right, yes," I said, at long last. "How?"

Sherlock Holmes smirked and explained.

"Your manner betrays you as a military man straightaway. You may have served in China, but you haven't the knees of a man who has spent substantial time at sea nor the mouth of an Englishman who has lived significantly in India, so the possibility is unlikely. One would assume that, given the manner in which the situation in Afghanistan ended, coming across an English survivor is yet more unlikely, but I would disagree. By the particular dry pattern and permanent light tan of your skin, I can deduce that you have suffered repeated sunburns and sand abrasion. Considering your time of hire, it can be concluded that you only returned within the past few months. When considering the rope burns at your wrists, the time of your return, and the time of the retreat from Kabul, it must be concluded that you are one of the captives released by the Afghan government this past September. As for your wounds, your shoulder wound was apparent outside, when you helped me to my feet. You favor the left shoulder, although you are left-handed. If your cane was mere affectation, you would not have brought it along for a spontaneous midnight stroll. I knew about your sister from your shirt."

"My shirt?"

"Yes, your shirt. Not professionally made, unlike the rest of your clothing. Too new to be a mother's handiwork—your mother is long dead—and you've no wife, nor sweetheart. That leaves a sister. If she were unmarried, she would be obliged to take you in. That you are here, and the recent hole in your right trouser leg which has not been mended, implies she did not, not even when you were newly returned. Her drinking is obvious from the sloppiness of the stitching, and her childlessness from the fact that she has given you a shirt at all. No mother has the time to make clothing for her brother; she is busy with the children. What drives a woman to drink and prevents a man from visiting his sister? A lout of a husband."

For the second time in as many minutes, I was stunned into silence.

"When were you looking at my knees, wrists, and mouth?"

"When you knelt and when your sleeves rode up as you took hold of my ankle."

"And—"

"Really, Dr. Watson. Your mouth is in the center of your face."

I shook my head. The sun had only just risen above the horizon, I had hardly slept, and yet I was as awake and alert as a hunted deer. In fact, I was thrilled.

I laughed. "Brilliant."

Mr. Holmes started. "Is it?"

"Of course! That was…truly, utterly unbelievable."

"That…isn't what people usually say."

"What _do_ they usually say?"

"Sod off."

Mr. Holmes smiled, and I returned the expression. I felt lit up, incandesced.

"Was I correct?"

"What?"

"Did I get anything wrong?"

In fact, he had. I almost didn't tell him, but he was fixed so upon me and was in such obvious excitement for my answer that I felt I must.

"Harriet's husband is a horrid man, and she does take to the bottle on the fault of it. He would surely have refused me if he had known, but he likely does not. It was Harriet who refused me."

Mr. Holmes threw up his arms. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "Your pocket-watch!"

I had no time to demand an explanation of him, for at that moment, the bell rang for breakfast.

I lent Mr. Holmes my cane for the walk from the library to the parlor. When we arrived, we found Mr. Mycroft Holmes already seated at the head of the table. His face upon seeing his brother was stiff and inscrutable. Sherlock Holmes assumed a similar expression straightaway. Aside from the nose, there was little in the way of familial resemblance between them.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft Holmes.

"Mycroft," said Sherlock Holmes.

"I see you have met Dr. Watson."

"I have."

"How fortunate for you that he was there when you took your fall."

I nearly interjected to insist that he explain how he knew such a thing, but I had had quite a dosage of eerie knowledge for one morning as it was.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Indeed."

"I am _so_ pleased you have returned." He sounded nothing of the sort. "Please, sit. You must be hungry."

We both took our seats, somewhat warily. Breakfast was brought in and laid out. I found myself rather hungry after the night's exertions, and tucked in. Sherlock seemed much more reluctant.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, "do eat something. I know you've nothing on."

"On the contrary. With the trial approaching, I am heavily occupied."

Trial? Was the younger Holmes a barrister or solicitor? Surely I would have heard this already.

Mycroft grimaced. "Whatever you think."

"I shouldn't be home more than a week, I think."

"A week?" I interjected.

"No," Sherlock continued. "I have some business to attend to here, and then I must return with haste to London."

"What business do you have back in London that requires you so urgently?" I asked, burning with curiosity.

"My brother studies madness," said Mycroft, with some distaste. "He is currently assisting the Law Officers of the Crown in the trial of Daniel M'Naghten."

"The…man who shot the Prime Minister's secretary?"

"The very same," Sherlock said. "His fool barrister is going to attempt to have him pardoned on a plea of insanity. It's bollocks, of course."

"Still," Mycroft continued, "if they are successful, it will have far-reaching effects on the law."

"They will _not_ be successful."

Mycroft did not reply.

The rest of breakfast passed in uncomfortable silence. Sherlock rose first.

"Now, if you don't mind," he said, "I shall be in my laboratory."

He disappeared.

I was finished not long after. As I moved to leave, Mr. Holmes called me.

"Dr. Watson?"

I halted. "Yes?"

"Do look out for him, would you?"

I frowned, but nodded my assent.

When I reached my room, I realized that Sherlock Holmes had absconded with my cane.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the upgrade in rating. ;) Get hype.
> 
> Sorry for the lack of action here. In the end, I think I'm going to merge a lot of these chapters together. The full thing is just too much to get done in a week, so it's coming out in shorter pieces. You can follow this and the other S4 fics on the [Tumblr](http://sherlocksundaysummerserial.tumblr.com/) for it.
> 
> Also, please, leave any concrit you've got!
> 
> I'm especially interested in the Mycroft/Sherlock/Mr. Holmes dilemma. Formally, John should be thinking of both of them as "Mr. Holmes." But then you've got the challenge of keeping them straight in the non-dialogue bits, and some of the dialogue. In Greek Interpreter, Watson generally calls Mycroft "Mycroft," and Sherlock "Holmes," with a little flex. But since Mycroft is sort of higher-ranking in this Watson's hierarchy, I can't justify John calling him "Mycroft." I could make Mycroft a baronet who wasn't using "Sir Mycroft" before this point because he doesn't use the title, generally, but I don't know if that makes sense as something Mycroft would do. HELP!


	5. Sarabande

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I passed, I heard the distant strains of a violin. I had not heard music in some time, not since long before coming to Bakerfield. Curious, I tentatively approached the chapel door and stepped inside as quietly as I could.
> 
> Before the altar, in the sunbeams streaming from the stained glass windows, stood Sherlock Holmes.

For the first time since I had returned from Afghanistan, my sleep that night was undisturbed by dreams. The morning, however, quickly made up for my night's peace.

As I approached the parlor to take breakfast, I began to hear the sounds of raised voices. Molly, the maid, was knelt at the door, listening intently. I cleared my throat. Startled, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Oh, Dr. Watson!" she exclaimed in a hushed voice. "I'm so, so sorry! I wasn't—I would never—I only came to peek and see if Mr. Holmes and Mr. Sherlock Holmes were ready for their meal, and I heard the shouting, and I didn't know if to go back to Mrs. Turner or—"

"Molly!" I put up my hand. "I only wanted to ask what was going on."

Her cheeks colored slightly. "Oh! Well," she whispered, beckoning me closer, "Mr. Sherlock Holmes means to be off to Yorkshire at the end of the week, to visit a hospital there. His brother wants him back to London for…a trial? It sounds quite urgent."

I nodded. "May I?" I asked, gesturing to the door.

"Oh! Of course."

Molly allowed me the space to lean in towards the door and listen.

"…vital in exacting change on the legal front," said Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes scoffed. "The legal front! Yes, that should certainly be our highest priority, to more efficiently lock them up!"

"Surely that is preferable to the gallows."

"Surely it would be preferable to render both unnecessary!"

There followed a long silence during which neither brother spoke. Then there came the sound of pounding feet moving towards the door. Molly and I moved hastily aside only just in time to avoid being struck by the door as it was flung open. Sherlock Holmes did not so much as glance at us as he stormed down the hall and away. Inside the parlor, Mr. Holmes was sat at his usual place.

"Dr. Watson," he said, his voice heavy. "Good morning. I do apologize for any disturbance I may have caused you."

"Not at all," I said.

"Do join me for breakfast. It seems as if Sherlock shall be finding other arrangements."

Breakfast was, as one might expect, an uncomfortable affair. We spoke but little, and only about such subjects as the weather, and the Duke of Devonshire's expensive additions to the gardens at Chatsworth.

Being an unseasonably pleasant day, I took the long way back to my rooms. The house was quiet, as most of the servants had not yet returned from church. Perhaps it was the Sabbath day that inspired me to stroll past the chapel.

As I passed, [I heard the distant strains of a violin.](https://youtu.be/V3aloHY7I_g?t=8s) I had not heard music in some time, not since long before coming to Bakerfield. Curious, I tentatively approached the chapel door and stepped inside as quietly as I could.

Before the altar, in the sunbeams streaming from the stained glass windows, stood Sherlock Holmes. Even dressed as he was in a dressing-gown and slippers, he cut quite a silhouette. His loose, dark curls shone like polished stone in the morning light. His neck curved, swanlike, to allow him to hold the violin at his shoulder. He played with an almost frightful ferocity, the music sweeping and soaring and fluttering over trills with ease, though without ever suffering for passion. He swayed as he played. From where I stood, it looked less as if he were playing the violin, and more as if it was playing him.

With one final long, low, lingering note, Sherlock Holmes lifted the bow from the strings and let both instrument and means fall gracefully to his sides.

I could not bring myself to say a word. As keen as his observational skills were, he must have noticed my presence. Perhaps I hoped he might pick up his bow and continue to play.

Instead, he spoke. "Tell me, Dr. Watson," he said, without turning. "do you believe in the supernatural?"

I gave a start. "What do you mean by that?"

"The supernatural, Doctor. All that is beyond man's fragile understanding of the universe. Ghosts, spirits, heaven, hell."

"My knowledge of theology doesn't extend past Sunday school, I'm afraid."

Then, Sherlock Holmes turned. His features were obscured, the light from behind being so much stronger. He seemed to glow around the edges. "I was hardly asking you in your capacity as a theologian," he said rather scornfully, quite spoiling the serene aura given him by the setting.

"Well, then, sir," I said, "in what capacity were you seeking my expertise."

"In your capacity as a man of experience who has seen death, do you believe there is a force greater?"

To that, I did have an answer, though I wagered it wasn't the one he wanted. I remembered well the moments when I was overcome by fever, or at the end of an Afghan bayonet. I could recall them with stunning clarity, and 

"Fear," I said. "It is stronger than death and staves it off, and can drive the mind to suppose any number of fancies are fact."

He halted in his pacing and regarded me with a curious expression, both surprised and delighted.

"Good," he said. "It's a crock of nonsense, all of it. Ghosts!" He snorted. "If ever there were a ghost, surely it would be here."

Frankly, I could picture it. An apparition in white, drifting listlessly down the corridors. I looked down at the effigy of Charlotte Holmes and realized that I had let my hand rest next to it. Hastily, I removed it.

"Pardon my asking," I said, "but why, exactly—"

I did not finish my sentence before Sherlock Holmes was upon me.

He strode from his place by the altar to me, just at the stairs from the nave. The steps exaggerated our difference in height so that I stood no taller than his chin. I had to look up to meet his gaze.

"You're a doctor," said he.

"Well spotted," said I.

"An army doctor."

"Yes."

"You've seen much, I presume. Injury, violent death, madness."

I swallowed. "Yes."

"Trouble, too, I'd wager."

"Enough for a lifetime."

His pale eyes twinkled with something bright and spirited. "Want to see more?"

It was as if a weight I had bourn for years had been suddenly lifted from me and left me startlingly light and quick. I thought for a moment that I was suffering a dizzy spell.

"God, yes," I said all in a rush.

Sherlock Holmes's face split into a wide smile. He clapped me on the shoulder as best he could with his violin bow in hand. "Pack a bag," he said. "We're to London. It shouldn't take more than two days by coach, three at most."

He swept away towards the door, leaving me staggering.

"Mr. Holmes! Where are you—"

He whirled and flashed me a devilish grin. "I'm off to inform my brother I'm kidnapping his physician. Come on, Doctor! The coach departs from Bakewell at midday, and it would not do to miss it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All this delay and such a short chapter. Forever apologies; it shan't happen again. Thanks for everyone's weighing in on the Mycroft/Sherlock naming dilemma! It looks like "Mr. Holmes" and "Mr. Sherlock Holmes" are the correct. I think, in the non-dialogue bits, I'll use the full "Sherlock Holmes" for some time when both brothers are in the same general place, and "Holmes" when John and Sherlock are elsewhere together. At least, until circumstances result in him becoming just "Sherlock" in John's thoughts. ;)


	6. The Best-Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "That would be a tremendous mouthful."
> 
> Holmes caught my eye. His mouth curved into a small half-smile, more amused than a smirk, and with something light and mischievous in his eye. "Though I could probably manage it, why not skip the formalities?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small note: between this chapter and the last, I changed the sort of coach John and Sherlock are using to get to London. I implied they were traveling by stagecoach last chapter and have since done more research and found that traveling from Derbyshire to London by post, or post chaise, is more doable than I thought on first research, and far more appropriate for men of the Holmes's station. Correct me if I'm wrong there. You all were so helpful with my question on names for the Holmes boys! I used your info to address it a bit in this chapter, and managed to slip in some SWEET GAY VICTORIAN FLIRTING alongside as my little thank-you.

We left at midday without even taking luncheon. The Holmes's man Jack loaded my small trunk and Mr. Sherlock Holmes's much more substantial luggage, and we climbed aboard. Mr. Holmes allowed me to take my seat first, then took the seat next to me.

It was only after the post lurched into movement that the utter ridiculousness of the morning struck me. Nevertheless, I found that I was laughing. I bit my lip and looked out the window at the passing countryside. The frosts were beginning to melt. In the midday sun, the fields seemed to glisten through the light mist.

"Right," said Sherlock Holmes, "I imagine you've questions."

I rubbed my hand over my mouth. "A few. To wit: what are we doing? You said we were going to London, and your brother mentioned the M'Naghten case, but I am no alienist."

"In this case, that puts you at a decided advantage," said Mr. Holmes. "My brother told you I study diseases of the mind, and that I am assisting the law in the M'Naghten trial. How familiar are you with that case?"

"Only passingly. The shooting occurred not long before I came to work for the elder Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock Holmes wrinkled his nose. "Just 'Mr. Holmes' will do, I think. My brother already thinks himself my master. The last thing I need is for him to think himself my father." He shuddered delicately. "Just 'Holmes' is perfectly sufficient for me. I certainly have no intentions of referring to you as Captain John H. Watson of the 44th Regiment of Foot."

Of course he knew my regiment. "That would be a tremendous mouthful."

Holmes caught my eye. His mouth curved into a small half-smile, more amused than a smirk, and with something light and mischievous in his eye. "Though I could probably manage it, why not skip the pleasantries?"

I grinned back.

"On the 20th of July, Daniel M'Naghten shot Edward Drummond in the head. Though he seems sane, he insists 'the Tories' made him do it, and has barely spoken since. His defense team maintains that his delusions impaired his moral sense and self-control, depriving him of any restraint over his actions. Relevant to all this, especially to my brother's involvement, is that Mr. M'Naghten—who was a woodturner, mind—was arrested with a £750 bank note in his pocket, the funds from which are being used to furnish his defense. Additionally, outside of a month prior to the crime, he had no history of lunacy."

I nodded, though I scarcely followed.

"What do you know of the legal status of insanity?"

"Very little," I confessed. "Only that it is an approved reason to declare an accused person not guilty, if a rarely successful one."

Holmes inclined his head and grimaced. "True. That is because the criteria for determining insanity, as it is, are vague and nigh impossible to prove. The accused must be 'totally deprived of his understanding and memory and knew what he was doing no more than a wild beast or a brute, or an infant.' This is commonly interpreted to mean that the accused cannot remember the act, or has no understanding of it whatsoever. As you can imagine, only the most obviously feeble-minded can conclusively pass this test. And yet, there are certainly mentally ill men and women charged with crimes who, though they may not be 'sufficiently deranged' under the current legal definition, are certainly undeserving of the gallows."

The disparate evidence began to coalesce. The money, the sudden onset of madness, Mr. Holmes's involvement, the state of the law—all this slotted into place.

"I…might have cottoned on," I said. "Your brother—somehow, I've no earthly idea how—has arranged this in order to…bring about legal change?"

Holmes turned his gaze on me again. His expression was unreadable, but I did think I saw a glint of approval flash through his eyes. "More or less," he said. "As for how, I did tell you that he is only shamming infirmity."

"He does have gout and a poor heart."

"More or less," Holmes said again, more darkly.

"I would think that my medical training might enable me to catch out someone completely shamming," I said, more than a trifle offended.

"I never said he was _completely_ shamming. Who could achieve his magnitude without suffering some consequence?"

I took a moment to compose myself. My temper has always been short, and was being sorely tested. My companion seemed not to notice. I refocused myself upon our conversation.

"For what has he need of you?" I asked. 

Holmes's face twisted into a sneer. "Diplomacy," he spat.

I snorted. Holmes looked up, startled.

"Oh—apologies," I said. "Only—has your brother _met_ you?"

Holmes smirked.

"If you are his diplomat," I continued, "then what am I?"

Holmes cocked his head to the side like a foxhound, considering. "My credentials," he said.

I did not inquire further.

We spent the rest of the morning in companionable silence. Holmes took out a book on pharmaceutic plants, and I watched the countryside pass by and contemplated the situation. It occurred to me that I had essentially just left my post. This realization was far less alarming than it likely should have been, but I supposed that, given the circumstances, my employer was likely to be forgiving. At least, he would if my presence was as necessary as Holmes implied it was. That state did seem more tenuous than I would prefer. Still, I could not bring myself to worry. The day was pleasantly, unseasonably warm, the fresh air was bracing, and I felt more invigorated than I had in months. In such a state, I could not abide to waste energy on concern.

We stopped for the night at a coaching inn nearly halfway to London. As we took our meal, Holmes looked around the room, surveying the other inhabitants, scrutinizing for the subtle indications that told him everything he might want to know and telling me all this for my entertainment. He was alight with interest, bright and sharp with attention, and it was hopelessly captivating.

After some time, I had to excuse myself. "We have traveled some distance," I said. "Should we not retire?"

Holmes flapped a hand. "I shall be along. Do not bother waiting."

I was too weary to attempt even polite disagreement, and went up to our room to sleep. The lodgings were cosy. I compared it unfavorably with the Bakewell inn where I had waited to be fetched off to my new position, though it may have merely been the relative warmth of the day. Without further delay, I undressed, laid myself down in the bed, and fell asleep.

Frayed nerves had made of me a light sleeper. So, when I was joined at a nigh-unthinkable hour of the night by another body in the bed, I nearly killed it without a second thought, before remembering that I was not traveling alone.

"If you killed me in your sleep, I do not think my brother would be willing to send you off with references," Holmes said.

I chuckled at that. "No, I would think not."

The bed was too small for us not to sleep back to back. The presence of another body was oddly steadying.

"When we reach London," he said, "I have a request to make of you."

"Name it," said I.

He paused a long while before answering, and when he did, his voice had taken on an unfamiliar, hushed quality. "Trust me."

I weighed his request. "I will do what I can."

Holmes relaxed. "That is all I ask."

We spoke no more that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, bad writer, doesn't update for over a week and then posts barely 1k words. In my defense, I suffered not just a one-two punch, but a one-two-three punch of health problems: first my physical health, then my cat's health, then my mental health. One of these things is connected to the other two. I bet you can't work out which. In any case, the kitty is home and doing much better, I can breathe, and I've got the brain shit...well, that bit's not much better, but such is life.
> 
> Now, editing question: was Sherlock's "M'Naghten Backstory 101" followable? Or did you get lost? It's hard trying to write up a quick primer of it when I'm staring at all the research and thus know everything. I'm never sure what's relevant and what's not. It may become marginally clearer in the next chapter or two.


	7. Society and Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have many times heard the handsomeness of the English officer's uniform remarked upon: the scarlet color, the tidy gold buttons, the touches of braid, the striking epaulettes with their fringe. Myself, I have never been able to appreciate its aesthetics, having seen its intended purpose in action. When a man sees firsthand how well the renowned red coat disguises the stain of blood seeping through the wool, he often loses his taste for the way it catches ladies' eyes.

The evening next, we arrived in London. Holmes had booked us a pleasant suite at Brown's on Albemarle Street. He arose the next morning in fine spirits.

"We have quite the busy day ahead of us," said Holmes. "This morning, I shall be stopping by the offices of Sir William Follett, Solicitor-General, whilst you meet Mr. Alexander Cockburn for cards at Crockford's. For the evening's entertainment, I have acquired for us two vouchers that shall admit us to tonight's ball at Almack's."

"Almack's?" I exclaimed. "On scarcely twelve hours' notice?" I did not add my surprise that a society of Almack's reputation would admit a country physician of no especial wealth, breeding, or fame.

Holmes curled his lip. "My brother," he said, by way of explanation. "Have you appropriate dress?"

"Not unless the standards of the Patronesses have declined significantly."

Holmes frowned. "You haven't your uniform?"

"Well, I have," I admitted, with a grimace, "but it would need to be cleaned, and—"

"The uniform it is, then. I shall have it sent to be cleaned. Now, accompany me to breakfast. We have much to discuss."

We dressed and went down for breakfast in the hotel lobby. Holmes appeared near to bursting with good humor, and even smiled at the young man who brought us our tea. Prior to that moment, I was not sure I had seen him smile at any stranger, let alone one who had already given him what he wanted.

"So," I began, "who is this gentleman I am to lose at cards to?"

"He is M'Naghten's solicitor," said Holmes. "Credit where credit is due: he is less stupid than most men, and more truly clever than many. He needs little assistance in winning his case, truth be told, particularly considering his adversary."

"His adversary?"

"Sir William Follett," Holmes said, without disguising his loathing, "the man who passes for the Queen's Solicitor-General. He will be making the argument for the crown."

"Not the Attorney-General?"

"Indeed not. The Attorney-General is off prosecuting Chartists in Staffordshire. A happy coincidence for Misters Cockburn and M'Naghten, as although Sir William has memorized half a library's worth of law, he cannot argue himself out of a paper bag."

"A very happy coincidence," I said, thinking of the other Holmes. "Now, just a moment—are you not advising the Crown's law officers?"

Sherlock smiled like a smug cat and sipped his tea. "Am I not?"

There was another game afoot here. Though suspicion should have soured the camaraderie between Holmes and I, I could not shake the singing in my bloodstream at the prospect of intrigue.

"As I said," Holmes continued, "Mr. Cockburn's case is fairly secure at present, though his argument does suffer from a lack of academic foundation. I have with me an annotated copy of Isaac Ray's _Treatise on the Medical Jurisprudence of Insanity_. I should like to lend it to you. Do not worry overmuch about its safekeeping. As a matter of fact, if it should fall into Mr. Cockburn's pocket while you are at cards, it would be of no great loss to me."

"Got it," I said, with a wink. Holmes feigned innocence.

"When all is finished, we should rendezvous here, dress for Almack's, and be at the door by nine. The doors are shut at ten and supper served at eleven, and we must be there with plenty of time to spare." He set down his tea and stood. "Now, I must be off. Sir William often takes an early luncheon, and I should not care to miss him."

I nodded my understanding and rose. As a servant approached with my coat, Holmes stopped me with a hand on my elbow.

"Before we depart," he said, with a devious spark in his voice, "there is one more task I would set you to, if you are willing…"

———

Crockford's, it transpired, was a club in St. James's dedicated entirely to the playing of cards and other games of chance. I had been rather embarrassed when Holmes insisted I take a ten-pound note with me to the club, but once I had set foot inside, found myself grateful to be bankrolled by someone with deeper pockets.

Having encountered my fair share of them, I knew at once that I was surrounded by cheaters, drunkards, and libertines. As I entered, another man was exiting, hat brim pulled down, and tucking a large number of bank notes into his pocket. Though still a gentleman's club, it seemed heavily populated by men that many ladies would cross the street to avoid. Smoking was permitted, clouding the room in a thick haze that rivaled the pea-souper outside. A table by the fireplace was the most occupied, and saw several men still in their coats playing at whist. It seemed a strange place for England's foremost barrister to spend his leisure hours, particularly one whom Holmes seemed to hold in such high esteem.

Or, at least, what qualifies as "high esteem" for Sherlock Holmes.

I caught an attendant by the arm. "Excuse me," I said, "I am here to meet Mr. Cockburn. Where could he be found?"

The attendant pointed me over to the table by the fire. "He is just there, sir."

I thanked him and approached the table with a jovial smile. "Pardon my intrusion," I said, "but I believe I am here to see one of you. One Mr. Cockburn?"

A well-dressed man with a thinning hairline and a red, hooked nose hailed me. "Dr. Watson! Why, yes, that Mr. Holmes told me you would be paying me a visit."

One of the other card-players eyed him sharply. "Not the Mr. Holmes who is aiding that braggart Follett!"

Mr. Cockburn waved him off. "No, no. His brother, that country squire out near Wirksworth. Or Ashbourne."

"Bakewell," I said. "I shan't tell Mr. Holmes you've forgotten."

Mr. Cockburn roared boisterously and—I thought—with disproportionate mirth. "Precisely! And never fear, Mr. Thesiger; it is a mere social call. No one is conducting themselves dishonorably." He signaled for an attendant. "Pull up another chair! I should dearly love to outwit at cards a man who outwitted half of Afghanistan."

My stomach tightened, but I managed a small laugh and accepted the proffered seat.

Mr. Cockburn, to my luck, was one of the men who had not removed his coat. While it was a breach of conduct, it was most convenient to me and the small book in my pocket. I leaned back casually in my chair and folded my arms across my chest as if observing. In actuality, I was widening my field of vision enough to see where every man at the table was looking. Holmes had impressed upon me the importance of not being caught placing the book, and I had no doubt that Thesiger at least would not hesitate to point me out, were he to catch me in the act.

Unfortunately, Mr. Thesiger would not take his eyes off Mr. Cockburn, and, by association, me. I resigned myself to waiting until the game ended and I could commit my backwards thievery unobserved.

"Afghanistan, you said?" said another of the companions. "Terrible business, that."

I hummed a noncommittal response.

"Mr. Driscoll, your brother was involved in that, was he not?"

Mr. Driscoll snorted. "I should say not! He is posted near the Cape of Good Hope."

"Well, who was in Afghanistan, then?"

"Mr. Broadfoot's boy."

"Oh, yes! How is the old chap?"

"Mr. Broadfoot, or his son? Mr. Broadfoot is doing swimmingly, now that his wife is taking the waters with her sisters."

Mr. Cockburn snorted. I found myself wishing fervently to be anywhere else.

Mr. Thesiger slapped down his cards. His partner whooped, as the other players round the table groaned.

"If he has his way, Mr. Thesiger shall be leaving with the lining of my pockets and the right of prima nocta with my wife," Mr. Cockburn's partner grumbled.

Mr. Thesiger leaned in to collect his winnings, and I spotted my opening. I drew the book from my pocket, leaned in to Mr. Cockburn and muttered, "I've seen Mr. Thesiger's wife, and I shouldn't blame him." As I did, I slipped the book into the pocket of his coat.

As I had expected, Mr. Cockburn guffawed and pounded the table, fully distracting both himself as well as the rest of the table. The first part of my task being completed, I sat back with satisfaction.

"If you gentlemen can find me a partner," I said, drawing the banknote from my pocket, "I could be persuaded to show you how the game is played."

With the earnest joviality of the slightly drunk, Mr. Cockburn slapped me on the back. "Batten down the hatches, gentlemen! The cavalry is here!"

Some two hours later, I found my pockets heavier by some four pounds. Meanwhile, Mr. Cockburn found himself heavier by at least four drinks. His raucous outbursts of emotion had grown lengthier and more frequent as the day wore on. Thinking back to the second half of my assignment, I set down my cards.

"Fellows," I said, "I'm afraid I must excuse myself. Mr. Cockburn, could I do you the honor of paying for your cab?"

He flapped a dismissive hand. "Oh, no, no need, no need, my boy! Plenty of hours left in the day, plenty."

"Well," said Mr. Thesiger, whose winnings were, by and large, now in other purses, "you _have_ got court on the morrow."

Mr. Cockburn screwed his face up into an expression of distaste. "Oh, well."

He clapped a hand on my shoulder, ostensibly out of familiarity, though serving the additional, practical purpose of helping him stand. He swayed dangerously, righted himself, giggled, and patted my shoulder.

"Let's away with ourselves then, Doctor."

I hailed us a cab. Mr. Cockburn was persuaded to give the driver his address. As Mr. Cockburn described in great detail his plans for the evening, I nodded and hummed noncommittally as I felt in my pocket for my supplies.

At last, the cab stopped before Mr. Cockburn's house in Mayfair. I offered to escort him to his door, and he accepted. I bid him a good afternoon, and the door swung shut behind him.

Glancing back towards the street, I found it empty save for the driver of the cab, whose back was turned as he saw to his horses. Assuming there were no neighbors peering through curtains, I was unobserved.

I took a few farthings from my pocket, leaned one shoulder against the door, planted one foot firmly on the step, and pushed enough to widen the crack between the door and its frame. One at a time, I wedged the coins into the open space on the hinged side, until at last I could fit no more.

When Holmes had demonstrated this trick, he had allowed me to attempt to open the door and see how the pressure created by the coins rendered the door impossible to open. Not being able to open this door now it was locked, I had to simply hope that it would do the job.

Holmes had assured me that jamming the front door would be a sufficient obstacle to keep Mr. Cockburn from carrying through with his plans to drink the night away tonight, and the book in his pocket would likely do the job alone. The door was perfectly operational if opened from the outside, so his aide would be entirely able to open the door when he arrived to fetch his master on the morrow, once he was thrown a key from the window. But for the time being, we were assured that Mr. Cockburn would spend his night studying up on the case and, hopefully, sobering up, rather than carousing with his brother's children's governess.

Having accomplished my duties, I climbed back into the cab.

"Brown's Hotel, please," I told the driver, "and sixpence on top of the fare if you tell no one what you saw."

———

When I reached our room, Holmes had still not returned. What had returned was my uniform, which was laid out on my bed.

I set my hat on the pillow and regarded it with something like wariness. This was not the same uniform that had seen me through that awful winter on the road to Jalalabad. That one was likely serving as ticking in some Ghilzai warrior's mattress by now. No, this was the one I had worn when I was thanked by the Prime Minister and in which I and several fellows were melodramatically posed in the _Illustrated London News_. I supposed it was quite smart, certainly more so than any other suit of mine. But it was difficult to put on without waking some instinct I did not care to entertain. I found it was impossible to forget that this was a uniform, and not merely fancy dress.

Still, needs must. I fortified my resolve, undressed, and began to don the uniform.

I hadn't the Oxford mix trousers for winter, and counted it as good fortune that it was not muddy enough to ruin the white duck pair. My second-best shirt suited just fine, as it could not be seen under the coat. I have many times heard the handsomeness of the English officer's uniform remarked upon: the scarlet color, the tidy gold buttons, the touches of braid, the striking epaulettes with their fringe. Myself, I have never been able to appreciate its aesthetics, having seen its intended purpose in action. When a man sees firsthand how well the renowned red coat disguises the stain of blood seeping through the wool, he often loses his taste for the way it catches ladies' eyes.

I tugged my coat into place and looked myself over in the mirror. The man I saw there looked me over in return. It felt as if I were being appraised, and I straightened under the scrutiny.

I was just wondering at what I would do for a hat, as no English soldier has ever worn that damned shako except under threat of disciplinary action, when Holmes entered.

He did not knock, a habit I later learned was rather his custom. He simply pushed open the door and called, "Watson!"

He began to speak—asking about the time, or informing me of some crucial point of order he had not thought to mention until now—but stopped up short.

I turned to see what was the matter and found him struck quite dumb. He was frozen in the doorway, eyes fixed on my attire.

I could not help but notice his own as well. He had exchanged his day wear for elegant evening dress: a fine black suit with a waistcoat of purple brocade. He held a matching black silk top hat in both hands, which seemed near to bending the brim of the fine hat.

Holmes cleared his throat. "I meant to ask," he went on, "if you were ready. As you clearly are, we should—have you got a hat? I have one that may suit, and then we should be—off."

His speech was oddly stilted. I wondered if he dreaded such social occasions as these, even if they were the finest in England. Perhaps he dreaded them especially _because_ they were the finer in England.

"I would be much obliged if you would lend me a hat," I said.

"I thought as much," said Holmes, still looking slightly stunned. He blinked a few times, which seemed to bring him back into himself.

He moved to fetch his hat. But halfway round, he remembered something, and turned back to me with a smirk at the corner of his mouth and a glint in his eye.

"Watson?"

"Yes?" I said, with growing trepidation.

"While I imagine it would be troublesome to secret your Collier revolver in that uniform, it might be of assistance if you were to come prepared for trouble—just in case."

Without a word, I lifted the corner of my coat high enough to show the top of my waistband. Tucked into a belt inside of my clothing was a long, wickedly curved dagger, safely sheathed in leather.

Holmes looked it over with a feral smile and brought his blade-sharp eyes to meet mine.

"Well, then, Captain Watson," he said, "shall we away?"

I met his gaze unflinchingly. "Let's," I said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus CHRIST this is late, and even then I had to cut it in half. First there was Gridlock, and then there was moving back to school...but really, a lot of this is just me buying Starcraft II and discovering Heroes of the Storm ~~ask me for my Steam email~~
> 
> Anyways, EDITING QUESTION for this chapter/the next: please, let me know if you're following Sherlock's plan. He won't reveal the whole thing at once, because he doesn't, but I do want you, the reader, to get it by the end of the next chapter.
> 
> Also, FUN FACT: penny-locking a door is totally a thing you can do. Fun prank to play, though here it is being put to the cause of temperance/studying up for your case instead of fucking your mistress. My dad always did it to us with just the one penny.
> 
> Now, for the pretty pictures of Victorian uniforms! John, as a captain, would qualify for small amounts of the decoration that Regency uniforms were famous for, though at this point they had gotten more muted. I have for you some visual references (read: sexy fucking clothing) for the [front of the coat](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/33143747235016489/), the [back](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/33143747235016486/%20), what the [full thing might look like](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/33143747235016499/%20) (the guy on the right), and the [stupid hat](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/33143747235016504/) that John briefly bitches about. The strap was apparently famously uncomfortable, and padding it or even soaping it to make it chafe less merited disciplinary action.
> 
> Finally, it is about to no longer be summer, and yet this is VERY far from done. This hasn't been every Sunday for, uh, quite some time, and it's about to be OFFICIALLY not every Sunday. I'm going to shoot for every other Sunday, with posts on [my Tumblr](http://songlinwrites.tumblr.com/tagged/bakerfield-hall) featuring excerpts and neat things I find during research--because, to the best of my ability, this is a pretty damn accurate fic, and I've got the five goddamn pages of notes to prove it.


	8. Cloak and Dagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Once more into the breach," Holmes muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violence warning becomes quite relevant in this chapter.

Almack's was not far from the hotel and the evening was pleasant enough, so we chose to walk. Holmes wore a thunderous expression and said little.

Holmes pulled his cloak tightly around himself and scowled.

"Once more into the breach," he muttered.

I stifled a chuckle behind my hand. "What, not in the marriage market?"

Holmes pulled a disgusted face. "Categorically not, and if I were, Almack's would hardly be where I offered myself up for auction."

"It does seem as if your brother might."

Holmes snorted. "If he would haul his corpulent carcass off the settee! No, he is quite content to die alone and abandon Bakerfield to me."

What curious news! I had assumed that Mycroft Holmes was a childless widower, and did not think it prudent to ask. It was queer indeed for two men of good family and fortune to remain bachelors so far into their thirties and forties.

"And you?" I asked. "Are you to pass it on to a distant cousin?"

"My relations are distant, few, and loathsome. I shall probably leave it to the Quakers so they might open another asylum. Their Yorkshire hospital is becoming overtaxed."

I did not know what to say to that, so I said nothing. Holmes, though, was clearly not finished with me, as he did not look away from my face. I could not maintain his gaze, and looked away at the garden across the street.

"What about you?" he asked.

"I am afraid that my marriageable days have passed me by," I said. Only after I said it did I consider that my companion's phrasing might, by some, be considered indelicate. Well, it was hardly as if I did not know my employers were eccentrics.

Holmes smiled. "You would know better than I. The fairer sex is your department. In any case, let us hope the female contingent of Almack's agrees."

I cocked my head to the side, curious. "About that, Holmes," I said, "what _are_ we doing here? A bit old-fashioned, isn't it, Almack's?"

"As is our friend Sir William," said Holmes grimly. "He is a widower and an impossible bore. He is also an utterly incompetent solicitor. I met with him earlier today to review his case. He is convinced he has it entirely in hand. We are here to ensure that even if he did, he would be…off his game."

I frowned, still not understanding. Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Having encouraged Mr. Cockburn in his doings and kept him away from the bottle, it now falls to us to introduce Sir William _to_ it." Holmes held open his coat. An interior pocket held two sizable flasks. Holmes flashed me a smirk. "Care to liven up the old man's evening?"

The grin I returned him was wide and genuine. "Indeed."

We had reached the steps of Willis's Rooms on King Street. The guests were arrived and in high spirits, judging by the laughter and music that could be heard even on the street outside. I allowed Holmes to take the lead, as I thought it might be a poor showing if I were to fail to produce the proper invitations and have us unceremoniously ejected before we could complete our evening's business. Holmes presented the footman with a voucher from inside his coat pocket.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson," said the footman. "You may proceed."

Holmes winked at me as we passed over the doorstep and handed our cloaks to an attending servant. It thrilled me, as if we were a pair of schoolboys making mischief.

"Let us see to Sir William," said Holmes. "Come along, Watson."

We entered into the ballroom. As I had figured from outside, the ball indeed seemed to be at its height. At least, I could not imagine it growing in size or frenetic energy. The room was immense, taking up most of the building. It was gas-lit with cut-glass chandeliers and elegantly decorated: the gilt columns, pilasters, and mirrored walls were well within the boundaries of taste. There looked to be hundreds of people inside, all laughing and dancing and chatting. The din was incredible.

Holmes peered over the room. "Sir William will be in the card room. He is a frequent gambler, but a conservative one." He looked askance at me.

"If that was a veiled criticism at me," I said, "I shall neither hear nor respond to it."

Holmes studiously looked everywhere but at me.

We proceeded into the room and maneuvered our way towards a smaller side room filled with tables and card-players. I turned to ask my companion about our target—and found him halfway across the room. Of course.

"He does that," said a woman at my elbow.

With a start, I turned towards her. "Pardon?"

"Sherlock Holmes, disappearing." She smiled and inclined her head. "Good evening. Pardon me; there doesn't seem to be anyone about to make introductions."

"Er, excuse me," I said. "I am Dr. John Watson."

"Miss Sally Donovan." Miss Donovan dipped into a shallow bow. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Sally Donovan was a handsome woman with a deep tan complexion, a wide mouth, and a great deal of curly black hair pinned up around her head. She was dressed fashionably, if not ostentatiously, in a golden yellow gown with wide sleeves that left bare a neat half-circle around her neck and shoulders. Her only jewelry was a pair of small, modest gold earrings.

"Likewise," I replied, somewhat unsure of my sincerity. I looked over the top of her head and found that Holmes had disappeared completely. I would simply have to trust that he would find me again—a tremendously slim hope, if I were being honest. "You are acquainted with the family?"

Miss Donovan laughed, and I felt my polite mask falter a bit. There was something to it that I did not like—something almost bitter. "Oh, yes. I know him through St. Luke's, where I am a patroness. He has been there several times."

Again, I noticed something off to what she had said. Was it how she had spoken? Her face? No—it was her words. "Been there" was not "worked there." In that choice lay a multitude of potential meanings, falsehoods and half-truths, and no way of knowing undeniably someone's intentions. These verbal sparring matches were exactly why I had always loathed and avoided large social gatherings. Though I was born into the species of conversational subterfuge natural to such occasions, I could never bring myself to immerse myself in it or enjoy it the way other men may. It had always been a hateful necessity.

Nevertheless, a necessity it seemed to be. I gathered my wits and soldiered onward.

"I admit, I have only recently met Mr. Holmes," I said. _I haven't the faintest idea what you are implying._

Miss Donovan smiled humorlessly. "I'm sure he could tell you all sorts of tales from when I knew him at the hospital." _If you only knew what I know._

"Was he a doctor there?" I asked, feigning innocence. _Why do you want me to assume he was a patient?_

"To the best of my knowledge he holds no license to practice medicine," Miss Donovan said, equally feigning, and calling my bluff. _You know your answer. Playing the fool will get you nowhere._ "He is—and was then—more of a hobbyist." _Who, besides a deviant, would take such work on willingly?_

"Are you quite deeply involved in the work there at St. Luke's?" I asked. _You would._

Miss Donovan's face did not change. "I am. I believe it is essential that an administration be intimately familiar with who and what it oversees, particularly when it is to do with medicine and the sciences. It is better, I think, to do no work at all than to do work of no value. Do you not agree that it is insufficient for a woman to merely keep herself amused?" _I am proud of my work. Are your doubts based upon me or upon my sex?_

"I certainly do. During my service I met innumerable women who could match any man for courage, wit, or valor." _Do not presume to know me and my intentions._

Miss Donovan's eyes flashed, and her careful facade trembled. It reasserted itself quickly, though, and she was at me with a ready riposte. "How does a soldier and a doctor find himself in London with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" _Are you with him, then, and against me?_

To tell the complete truth was more than the situation demanded, and yet it did not demand total falsehood. A half-truth, then. "I was invited to his estate by his elder brother." _You will not know my allegiances from me._

She smiled: a tight, duplicitous expression. "London is a far way from Derbyshire. You _have_ lost your bearings, haven't you?" _Then you may leave, and leave now._

My temper was beginning to burn, and my polite expression felt stiff and uncomfortable over my face. A muscle spasmed in my jaw. "The younger Mr. Holmes and I are seeing to business in the city." _We are not so easily dislodged._

"Extensive business?" she said sweetly. _How many days must I count?_

"Oh, they very well may be," I replied, sure that all semblance of civility had fled my face. _Wouldn't you like to know?_

Miss Donovan arched one elegant eyebrow and looked as if she were about to reply, but then—

"Ah, Sally Donovan. Returned from your daily jaunt into the mortal world?"

As suddenly as he had disappeared, Holmes had materialized at my elbow. Miss Donovan's expression soured in an instant.

"Holmes!" I said, but it was a halfhearted rebuke. As shockingly inappropriate as his remark was, I could not help but to feel a rush of relief at finally hearing outright what someone meant instead of having to guess at it.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," said Miss Donovan. I would lose a toe to frostbite if she carried on in that tone.

Holmes made a show of glancing round the room. "Is Mrs. Anderson no longer a patroness here, or have you even fewer scruples than your hospital's cure rate suggests?"

Had Miss Donovan been of a lighter complexion, she might have flushed with anger. "Our cure rate is twenty percent higher than nearly any other institution's."

"Yes; that tends to happen when twenty percent of the patients you accept are less ' _mad_ ' and more ' _embarrassing_.'"

For a moment, I thought she might slap him, so plainly incandescent with rage as she was.

Instead, she turned to me, and said, "Be careful with this one. A man's interests are such excellent reflections of his history, aren't they?"

At that, my companion's face went very still. His expression was no longer contemptuous, but a veneer of control over a roiling mass of rage. Miss Donovan plainly saw it as well, but her response was unafraid. If anything, she looked…satisfied.

"Enjoy your madhouses, Mr. Holmes," she said. "They suit you."

With that, Miss Donovan turned and departed, sweeping away into the dancers.

"Jesus Christ!" I swore. "Holmes, what _was_ that?"

Though his cheeks were still flushed and his lips fairly trembling with fury, he spoke calmly enough. "An old friend."

"She didn't seem very bloody friendly to me."

Holmes's jaw tightened briefly, and his eyes flashed. He seemed on the verge of saying something—and instead, turned on his heel and strode away. This time, I was better prepared. I caught hold of his sleeve and followed closely behind in the path he cut.

"Holmes!" He seemed to be leading us toward the exit. "Where are we going? What about Sir William?"

"Taken care of," he replied shortly. "We are leaving."

"We've barely arrived!"

"Yes."

Holmes fidgeted as the attendant fetched his cloak. As soon as he had fastened his dark gray wool round his shoulders, he took off. I hurried along in his wake.

The temperature had dropped dramatically outside, but Holmes did not seem to feel the chill. As soon as the doors were shut, he stood still, tipped back his head, and drew in a deep breath of the dry March air.

He did not move from that posture for some time. The tension and fury of such recent memory ebbed gradually from his face. Though I was still bursting with questions, it seemed almost sacrilegious to disturb him in such a state of serenity. As he had been with his violin, Holmes seemed to have lost the tension that drove him, if just for the moment.

At length, though, the moment passed. He stiffened, and his expression followed suit. "Fancy a walk?" he said, already striding away.

Again, I followed. We left the steps of Willis's Rooms and proceeded down the path and into the street. I moved to turn towards our hotel. Just in time, I realized Holmes was continuing straight onwards, across the street and into St. James's Park.

"Holmes! Where are we—"

"Do try to keep up, Watson," Holmes called back over his shoulder. "I said, we are going for a walk."

"Right," I muttered under my breath. "In the Queen's backyard, at ten o'clock at night. Marvelous."

I do not know what it says about me that I followed him all the same.

St. James's Park is a strange place after dark. The gaslights on the street were obscured by the trees, and the park itself was unlit. Darkness lent a sinister quality to the cheery gardens and wide paths. The only illumination was provided by the reflection of the moon and stars in the lake, casting an unearthly silver pallor over the world. Apart from the occasional hoot of an owl or rustling of a squirrel, there was silence. After the bright yellows and whites, heat and noise at Almack's, it felt like plunging into a cool stream.

Nevertheless, I still had questions to be answered, both about our business and about Sally Donovan—what she had said, what she hadn't, and how Holmes had looked when she said that about history, and madhouses.

It did not seem like a topic that could be easily and politely broached, though. Sir William it was.

"So," I said, when I had caught up. "You saw to Sir William?"

"Sir William did not attend tonight," said Holmes. "Apparently a threat was made against him, and he thought it prudent not to go out. It is of no great consequence. Tonight's excursion was to rule out any possibility of his turning in a competent performance tomorrow. His record indicates we have very little to worry about."

A touch hesitantly, I chuckled. "So you weren't…" _Trying to keep me from hearing something I shouldn't?_

"I was looking for you," he said. He sounded irked, as if he hadn't swanned off and left _me_. "You must keep a better eye out. I've no earthly idea how you survived a war with senses that dull."

My hackles went up. "My senses are _hardly_ —"

"In any case," Holmes interrupted, "it seemed like an appropriate moment to take our leave."

A vein was still throbbing in my temple from "dull senses," but I could not argue with that. Had we stayed any longer, I may very well have gotten us ejected.

Unexpectedly, Holmes looped his arm through mine. I looked up at him in surprise.

"Holmes, what—"

"While we are speaking of senses," he murmured, "there is a man behind that tree who is about to shoot me."

I did not ask how he knew. I did not have time. Holmes had scarcely finished speaking when I saw the man's arm rising.

Equally, he had no time to turn around the tree and take aim. I charged forward, caught him by the gun arm, whirled him about, and forced him up against the trunk, twisting his arm behind his back with ruthless force and using the weight of my body to immobilize him. The gun dropped from his hand with a sharp cry, which I silenced with a hand over his mouth. He resisted, forcing me to plant one foot so that I might push back with greater force. To ensure he tried nothing foolhardy, I wrenched his arm a bit further. His struggling promptly ceased.

"I surmise we have met the threat against Sir William Follett," said Holmes, as if discussing the weather.

"The interfering bastard," our attacker spat.

"Holmes," I called. "What is the sentence for attempted murder?"

"It is difficult to say with perfect accuracy," Holmes drawled. "Under usual circumstances, anything from fifteen years to transportation. However, given the circumstances and our friends located in places both low and _extraordinarily_ high…" Holmes bent and plucked the gun up from the ground. "You won't be needing this where you're going. Nor anything else, I imagine."

The man gasped. "Please! God—please, I'll not hurt you, I swear it, I'll leave this place and never—"

I twisted his arm. He bent backwards with a cry of protest.

"Hush!" I hissed. "The Queen's Guard sleeps a shout away from here. Would you like to find out how lightly they sleep?"

He frantically shook his head no. "I'll be quiet. On my mother's grave, you have my word."

Holmes stepped closer, holding the pistol upright, but casually. At any moment, if he so desired, he could lower, take aim, and blow a wet, red hole into our attacker's head. "Examine this firearm, would you, Watson?" He pressed it directly to the man's temple. "I imagine your knowledge of firearms surpasses mine."

The stars, moon, and distant street lamps were bright enough for me to make out the shape and features of the gun. "A howdah pistol. Quite a nice one, at a glance."

"And uncommonly found so far west of India."

"Big game is thin on the ground in Mayfair," I agreed.

"Quite the puzzle," said Holmes.

"I shan't say a thing!" the stranger snapped.

Holmes smiled darkly. "You've no need to."

With his free hand, Holmes reached inside the man's coat. He struggled, but a twist to his arm and a reminder of the gun at his temple put a stop to that. Holmes withdrew, holding a parcel of letters.

"I'll take these, " Holmes said. "I imagine they will be quite illuminating."

He shook his head, and said, very softly: "He was never supposed to die."

His voice was so quiet I barely heard him. Holmes plainly did not, as the next thing I knew, he was surging forward, teeth bared in a savage expression.

"You have no idea, do you?" he hissed. "You simple-minded cretin, you have _no idea_ what is happening here!"

"I saw you with that William Follett!" he shouted. "You're going to put Daniel away! I know you're helping, and I know you're good at it. All those fat men in Whitehall say so. 'Sherlock Holmes will put a stop to it. Sherlock Holmes knows madness.'"

Holmes's grin widened, and his eyes glittered. Leaned in close as he was, the pistol still held to our captive's forehead, there was something unsettling in his face that itself seemed to falter at the brink of sanity.

"I do," he purred. _"Intimately."_

Some primal instinct in me was set off by the precise pitch and timbre of Holmes's voice. I recalled an encounter with a leopard in Afghanistan, when I was roused by just such a sound and opened my eyes to see the creature's sleek body passing over me towards her prey. As then, my pulse quickened, though my hands were very steady.

Then, as suddenly as Holmes's ferocity had risen, he lowered the gun, stepped away, and tucked the letters into his pocket. Preemptively, I tightened my grip on our assailant, but he was prudent enough not to try anything with the threat still immediate.

Now that the bloodlust had eased, I realized that we really were in a highly inconvenient place for crime. St. James's Park splits the land between Downing Street and Buckingham Palace: not an ideal location for unscrupulous activity. If we were discovered, Holmes and I would hardly look the innocents, being in possession of all the weaponry and this third man's possessions.

"Holmes," I said. "What now?"

My every instinct demanded that this scoundrel be held, restrained, and removed, the threat neutralized. There was something in him I did not like, something furtive and duplicitous.

"Oh, Watson, do release him," said Holmes. He twirled the gun around his hand. Astonishingly dangerous though it was, I had to admit that I found the gesture delightfully whimsical. "What is he going to do? Slap us to death?"

Well, if he did, I would be better prepared this time. I stepped back and let him go. He scurried off and away without so much as a glance backwards. I watched him go, still breathing heavily and my heart pounding in my ears. My every nerve was alight with jubilation. I could have skipped. I could have _sung_.

It was a good thing, too, for if I had been less alert, I might not have so soon heard when our assailant turned on his heel and charged.

I do not know if I saw him draw the knife before I drew my own. He was perhaps twenty paces away. I could match him. He had the reach on me; he would kill me, but I would wound him grievously in return. If I went to God that day, I would not go alone.

At the last second, he lunged not towards me—but towards _Holmes_.

I had no time at all to think, and only a little more to act. I flung my body sideways and thrust towards the main mass.

Someone cried out—was it Holmes? No, thank God, only this bastard who had dared threaten us—and I snarled like a rabid animal. Every sense I had and every tingling inch of my skin and muscle was devoted to the sinking of that blade into the attacker's body, plunging in up to the hilt and then pushing around and back, carving open flesh and exposing viscera until blood spurted out in great gouts.

I sliced through the subcutaneous fat at his back, through the skin and out the back of his shirt and coat. He staggered forward, doubled over at the waist, clutched his open side, and fell to his knees. He was split open from navel to side—but I had seen men last for days in such a condition.

He had heard our names. He could not be allowed to live past the next minutes.

Without pause for thought, I gripped him by the hair, pulled his head back, and slit his throat. He choked on the blood for a moment, but before long, the noises stopped. So, soon, did the blood. I released his hair and let his body fall to the ground.

My own blood still surged through me. I felt as if I would never need to sleep again. I panted for breath, and the air I breathed in was saturated with the dark, filthy smell of blood and death. It set my teeth and nerves on edge. It set me on _fire_.

Eventually, I became aware, in that supernatural manner one sometimes does, that I was still being observed.

Earlier that night, when I had caught Holmes staring at my uniform, I had supposed him to be startled, or surprised. If I were honest, I might have admitted that perhaps there was something additional in his eyes, something carnal, both frightening and alluring.

That hunger was now naked and unabashed in Holmes's eyes. I nearly staggered backwards from the almost-palpable force of it. My heartbeat thrummed with the strength of my desire. Something in me ached with a longing for something that had no name.

And then, in a rush, it named itself: Sherlock Holmes.

I should have run then. Perhaps to him, perhaps as far away as I could; I do not know.

Instead, I grinned. I must have looked a wild, savage thing: bloodied to the elbows, my white gloves stained crimson, my chest still heaving and my cheeks flushed. Holmes's breath seemed to catch.

"A pretty picture I must make," I said.

I licked my lower lip. At the bottom corner, I caught a salty-tasting fleck, and knew some of the blood had splashed onto my face. Holmes watched the progress of my tongue with unmasked fascination.

"Put your gloves in your pocket," Holmes said. He sounded as out-of-breath as I. "You can wear my cloak. The color of your coat hides most of the stains, but they may show under the lights at the hotel."

Holmes put the dead man's gun in his pocket and moved to unfasten his cloak. I cleared my throat, wiped the knife off as best I could on the dead man's clothing, slid it back into its sheath in my belt, shucked my gloves, and tucked them into my pocket.

"Here," Holmes said, stepping forward and draping his cloak over me.

His hands settled on my shoulders. The intimate contact made me shiver, despite the layers of clothing and warm blood soaking my sleeves. Holmes did not step away. Our faces were close, enough so that his breath puffed hot against my lips.

"Watson," he whispered. "I—"

"Hey! Who goes there?"

We split apart instantly. Someone was approaching. They had not yet noticed the body on the ground, but it would not be long before they did.

"Run!" said Holmes.

We took off. The pursuer gave a shout and followed, but we had some fifteen yards' head start and a better idea of where to go. Holmes veered right towards the fence. With his height and my strength, we were both able to clear it easily and take off across the street and into an alley. That alley led to another, which led to another, and before I realized how far we had gone, I realized we were at the service entrance to our hotel.

We leaned against the wall and caught our breaths. I caught his eye and he looked back over at me, only for us to break apart again with a snort of laughter.

"My God," I panted. "That very well may have been the maddest thing I have ever done."

"Oh, Watson," said Holmes, laughter still on his lips, "you cannot begin to fathom the mad things I could show you."

Something warm and liquid slipped into my stomach. Despite the chill of the night air, I no longer felt cold at all.

The door behind us slammed shut. We both started as a pair of maids came giggling out into the alley. Holmes smiled and jerked his head.

"Come, Watson," he said. "We look awfully shifty out here in the dark."

"People might talk," I said, still grinning.

We rounded the building and entered the hotel. A frisson of tension sparkled between us, heavy in the air as we proceeded up the stairs and down the hall to our door. He entered first and held open the door for me, and I followed.

I had to cut the tension. "I should return your cloak and hat," I said.

Holmes accepted them from me, finally looking away from me to do so. He stared at them as if confused. "I should...put these away," he said uncertainly.

I looked down at my hands. "I should clean up," I said.

"Yes," said Holmes, still seeming strangely lost.

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and left for the bedroom. Likewise, I went to give myself a cursory wash.

As I scrubbed the blood from my hands in the basin, I was struck by the realization that I just taken a man's life. Not the first time, no, but the first in peacetime, in England. And fled from the police! God, what if they found me? What if we had been seen and recognized? It never even occurred to me to suspect that Holmes might turn me in.

All these things I wondered with a critical, not emotional, perspective. Should I not panic? I had just killed a man.

Well. He wasn't a very _nice_ man, after all.

At that thought, I chuckled. Vaguely, I wondered at what kind of man would laugh after committing a murder. The thought did not linger.

Having washed, I went into the bedroom, meaning to tell Holmes what I had thought.

"Holmes," I began, "have you thought of whether—"

Holmes's cloak and top hat were tossed over his trunk, along with his coat, waistcoat, and shoes. The rest of his costume from the evening was still on his body, where he was sprawled across the bed over top of the sheets, fast asleep.

I sighed and shook my head. How long had he gone without sleeping or eating? When had I last seen him eat or sleep? I could not recall.

I realized I was faintly disappointed, but in what? It was something to do with that tension between us, an energy like none I had ever felt before. It had not yet burned out of me. I did not know what I had hoped for, but a solid night's rest was not it.

Nevertheless, it seemed as if that was my only option. I divested myself of my bloodstained clothing, hunted down my nightshirt, donned it, and climbed into bed. The last thing I saw before shutting my eyes was Holmes, rolling from his back onto his side with his hand curled by his face as a child might hold it. His expression was, as it had been on the steps of Almack's, peaceful and serene.

The feelings radiated from him and into me, calming the heat in my blood and speeding me towards a deep, undisturbed sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for Nano this year, I decided I would try to complete a Bakerfield chapter every 2-3 days. Now, every 2-3 days I wrote roughly one typical Bakerfield chapter's worth of words, but this particular chapter turned out to require...slightly more words than expected. By which I mean that it is about twice the length of the longest chapter prior to this one.
> 
> In any case, I am still cranking out about 1000 words per day, so look forward to more frequent updates. Also, remember: this is more or less my zero draft, so **concrit is very, very welcome!** I've been crowdsourcing the beta-ing out to you intrepid souls who are reading this as it updates, and it's been a really cool and helpful experience.
> 
> A few questions in particular about this chapter for you to consider (or not!):  
> -How was the pacing here? Did any bits seem to go by too quickly or not quickly enough for what was happening?  
> -Too many eyesex moments?  
> -Your opinions on this Sally?  
> -If you are speculating about what Sally is referring to re:Sherlock, what are your speculations?  
> -Would you rather I update whenever I finish a chapter (remember, I'm shooting for every 2-3 days) or on a particular day once a week?
> 
> And anything else you notice and want to comment on! I'm always a slut for concrit.


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